


some small measure of peace

by thejollysailor



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, None of the listed relationships actually appear but are referenced throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejollysailor/pseuds/thejollysailor
Summary: No one ever questions how the Queen in the North (twice wedded, never bedded, or so the rhyme goes) acquired both an heir and a spare.





	some small measure of peace

  
No one ever questions how the Queen in the North (twice wedded but never bedded, or so the rhyme goes) acquired both an heir and a spare.

  
That does not mean that they do not whisper of it, huddled in smoky taverns or stooping over the village well. Though there are whispers, they are never malicious. None begrudge their queen the freedom that staying unmarried brings her. Not after she had to suffer marriage to a flayed man they say were as rabbid as his hounds or the dwarf who brought a conqueror to their lands. In fact, their queens previous and unfortunate suitors in mind, most are quite happy with an unwed queen if that means not having some outsider or jumped up second son lording it over them and presuming to steal any of the power and esteem they grant to the Queen who won the North. But still they wonder, share and weave tales. Some say that she did as the women of the not-so long lost House Mormont did and fathered her children on the beast of her sigil. Some snigger and say that it's true, at least partly, that the Queen sired her princes with a wolf, some wild thing of the true north. Others scoff at this and wonder if it did not happen to her as it did for the daughter of that lord Stark of old, whose daughter was stolen away by a wildling. Most dismiss the latter tale, either because they cannot imagine their proud and stoic queen letting some untamed stranger having his way with her and escaping with his life or manhood intact (after all, it is said that she fed her second husband to a pack of direwolves) or because the wildlings, though for a short time their brothers-in-arms, are still viewed with suspicion and scorn by many.

  
No, most hold that the princes in the North were not sired by beasts or wild things or begotten in some other supernatural way but by men as any other babe is. Some even go so far as to speculate on the identity of said man. Or men, for the sons of Queen Sansa though both true Starks, are as different as the sun and moon. Some speak of a dashing, dark prince from the deep south where sands drift instead of snows, who had come seeking council from the beautiful queen and left with the seeds of independence and rebellion in his stomach and the seed of their queens firstborn in hers. And though many do not like the thought of their princes being of anything but pure northern stock (an argument often refuted by some drunk or washerwoman pointing out that their only good queen was born from a southern lady and her being no less a true Northerner for that) they have to admit that there is something dark in the older prince, Robb, who though he is as ruddy of hair as the uncle he is named after is also of a dark countenance that is not purely Stark. One will invariably encounter a footman who has trained with him in the yard of Winterfell, or a brash servingwench too fond of staring at shirtless lads at their swordplay, who will comment on how the Young Wolfs skin would often freckle and tan in the summer sun to such a degree that there could be no doubt that he was of the Blood of the Rhoynar as well as the First Men. No one is resentful of this not-quite-fact however: the Rhoynar are not quite as ancient as the First Men but they are noble nonetheless. None would ever think to speak ill of whoever sired lord Robb, would ever dare to do so when faced with the broad shouldered and tall man he would grow to become. Nor indeed would they do so behind his back, for his physical might was matched by a keen intellect and an ability to 'smell a rat', however well it hid. And so Robb II Stark would go on to pass all his life, growing from being known as the Young Wolf to being known as the Old or the Waiting Wolf, a reference to the long years he passed as heir because of his mothers unusually long tenure as queen, without ever hearing an uncivil word about his heritage (at least in public, for in private he and his brother would amuse themselves with demanding to hear the most outlandish tales of how and with whom they were sired, even spreading a few frankly ridiculous theories to the eternal vexation of their mother).

  
The musings surrounding the possible father of the younger prince are much less subdued. At least they are much less outlandish because of his looks: his dark hair and blue eyes couldn't raise the same speculation as the exterior of his brother. But people speculate nonetheless. Some look south for the father of their young prince as they do with prince Robb, eyes and minds wandering from Kings Landing, where some say a pretty squire-turned-knight once in the service to the Queen still lives, to Stormsend where the telltale look of the Baratheons are still to be found in the bastard son of Old King Robert, often within the same conversation. Some shake their heads at these tales, naming everything from the vows of the Kingsguard to the fact that Gendry the Baseborn is supposedly the spurned lover of Queen Sansa's younger sister.   
Most hold that whoever sired the prince must have been a northerner, for in him was some of the woolfsblood of the Starks of old which they argue would not have been the case if his sire was some southerner, whether he be a knight or a lord, baseborn or otherwise. No, they'll say, eyes wistful, Prince Theon's father was a Northerner, no question about that. And when the question inevitably turns to which Northerner, some will shrug and say that it doesn't matter whether he be Umber or Manderly or Reed, as long as hails from above the Neck or others will change the subject and suggest that their tankards be refilled. And some few will exchange glances and they will be noticed and someone will quietly ask what all this secrecy is about. And those who know will smirk and enjoy their companions ignorance and affront at being left out and sometime, very rarely, they will take pity on them and in hushed voices tell the tales from Winterfell, of a ranger clad in the black of the Brothers of the Night Watch, turning up every now and then. Sometimes staying away for months and years on end and sometimes staying for just a night but never settling or staying for long. And they'll tell of how the Queen always stands on the parapet as whoever it is comes and goes, of the servant's stories of this stranger instructing the princes in archery or riding horses, a privilege normally reserved for the Master at Arms. And if they are particularly bold or in their cups, they'll say that one can often hear wolves howling when the lone ranger visits, even when there is no moon to howl at. But the tales and insinuations will always stop once the listeners starts to ask for the rangers identity. 'Never you mind that' they'll say 'and mind you don't go spreading that story around. Best to leave it at peace'. And they'll give the listener a stern look and suggest another round of drinks.   
So no one questions how exactly the Queen in the North came by her two sons, who both bear the name of Stark. They whisper and guess at it in secret and make it their sport to speculate the truth. Some even know the truth, or just half of it, some even without knowing they do so. But if some travelling stranger starts asking too many questions or those questions have that underlying tone of condemnation, they'll be informed in no uncertain terms (verbal or otherwise) to keep their noses to themselves. The Northerners are after all loyal to their own and no one less than their Queen, who suffered much to gain them their kingdom. They do not begrudge her the pride and joy she takes in her children. No matter who fathered them. 

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been on my mind for a month and I finally decided to write it out on a whim, so it's unbetaed. I apologise for any mistakes. 
> 
> Idk, I just had this image of Sansa being an independent lady, siring children out of wedlock, generally just not giving any fucks and being a pain in the ass to Bran who is secretly amused and definitely started at least half the rumours about who fathered Sansas children. I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
